


When I Think About You (I Touch Myself)

by fits_in_frames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-03
Updated: 2007-07-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:59:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five people Dean Winchester has thought about while jerking off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Think About You (I Touch Myself)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ionsquare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionsquare/gifts), [sarahmonious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmonious/gifts).



> _i don't want_  
>  _anybody else_  
>  _when i think about you_  
>  _i touch myself_  
>  {the divinyls // i touch myself}  
> 
> 
> Spoilers through "All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2".

one.  
The series of circumstances which lead to this moment are, to say the least, mind-blowingly awesome.

First, Dad managed to swing a room with a record player. ( _My son, he's in his "loud music" phase,_ he'd whispered to the lady at the front desk, thinking Dean was too preoccupied with showing Sammy the map of the state. He wasn't.)

Then, Dean somehow got the job of going out to get dinner, during the process of which he passed by a record store. Which happened to have and old 7-inch of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" for two dollars, which happened to be left in his pocket after paying for three hamburgers.

And _then_ , Sammy decided he wanted to go with Dad to meet Caleb, and Dad miraculously agreed (it was only to pick up some more rock salt), and Dean reluctantly let it happen.

And so now Dean is alone, on his back with his head over the edge of the bed, watching scrambled porn upside down on the black-and-white TV set, Jimmy Page's guitar riffs blaring out of the tiny stereo system. He's shoved his pants down to his knees, and is jerking himself off outside of a bathroom for the first time in all his seventeen years. He's half watching the fuzzy impressions of tits and lips on the screen and half picturing Robert Plant in his head, as he was in the decade before Dean was born, all tight pants and open shirts and breathy moans, and Dean's not gay or anything, but fucking hell that guy was sexy. And then his hips hitch up and his heels dig into the mattress and he groans as he comes, imagining his fist was the mouth singing _i'm gonna give you every inch of my love_ in his ear.

 

two.  
This one is all Sammy's fault.

He just _had_ to start reading these stupid books when he was fourteen, and he just _had_ to insist that Dean read them too. ( _They're about witchcraft!_ he'd said, and Dad had passed the task along since he was hunting something and Dean had just dropped out of high school.) Dean felt like an idiot when he went to the library after dropping Sammy off at school--a twenty-something in a leather jacket, with questionable substances under his fingernails, lurking around the young adult section, sitting at the too-low tables and reading alongside twelve-year-olds with doting mothers and absent fathers.

Even after Sammy leaves, he keeps reading them. He still feels like an idiot, but he figures if he ever runs into Sammy again, they'll at least have something to talk about besides hunting.

He's three-quarters of the way through the fifth book (and yes, he finds out in horror, there's going to be another two books after this monstrosity) when they start describing the witches and wizards of the '70s as they were in their youth, and before he realizes it, Dean is crossing his legs. Well, fuck.

He escapes to the library bathroom, book in hand, and locks the door behind him. He yanks his pants down, props the book up on the toilet paper roll, and starts fucking his hand over his cock. He lets his eyes gloss over the pages he has in front of him, focusing on the words surrounding one Sirius Black, and picturing said Sirius Black when he finally closes his eyes: long hair, boyish good looks, con-man smile, rough hands, and something vaguely demonic about him that makes Dean's heart pound in his ears. (He feels like a goddamn pedophile, but right now, he doesn't care. At all.)

The only noise he makes the whole time (when he comes, silently, he narrowly misses the book itself, covering the wall next to it with sticky semen that doesn't come off even with toilet paper and spit) is a yelp of surprise when someone knocks on the door.

 

three.  
He's on his way to his first hunt by himself--a poltergeist in Kentucky somewhere--when he has to stop for the night.

It's a crap motel, and it's in the middle of fucking nowhere, and the room he gets smells like dead cats and mildew--but it has cable, so he doesn't complain. He puts on whatever movie channel he gets to first, and they're playing some movie with Jude Law and Matt fucking Damon, yeah.

Dean brushes his teeth with Matt Damon's voice in the background, and for reasons he's never been able to explain, his cock twitches in his boxers. (Seeing _Good Will Hunting_ that one time with Sammy was embarrassing enough, so he hasn't watched the guy in a film since.) He makes sure the door is locked, then gets completely naked and props himself up on the bed with lumpy pillows. He spits in his hand, and jerks himself off, slowly at first, but gradually faster and faster and before he knows it yes, yes, Matt Damon's half-naked and creepy as fuck, and Dean's coming all over himself. He doesn't even try to get it out of the bedspread the next morning.

 

four.  
This is so, so, _so_ fucked up, even for Dean. It's not like he can help the things that come into his brain when he's jerking off in a motel bathroom, especially after what he's been through in the last two days, but this just about takes the cake. He groans again, and there she is, pinned between his chest and the wall, that black dress rubbing against his skin, and she drags her hand over his back and he can feel the cool metal of her engagement ring leaving a white streak on his flesh and when he comes, everything goes white and when he opens his eyes, he's alone with his _Penthouse_ again.

"Who was it this time?" Sam teases him when he walks out, just like he always does. "Jenna? Tiffany?"

"Shove it, Sam," he says, because it sounds better than _my subconscious's version of your dead girlfriend_.

 

five.  
He doesn't mean to, he really doesn't, but fuck if he's about to stop now because he can feel it in the back of his throat: this is going to be the best orgasm of his life. Also possibly the last orgasm of his life, but that's not the point. He closes his eyes and bites his lip and pretends the upholstery is dark, tousled hair, remembers the soft sleeping-breathing noises and the feeling of safety he associates with them, feels his stomach would squirm with discomfort and pleasure all at once. He fucks his hand again, tightening his fingers a little, imagining it's that tight hot college-dropout ass, freshly wet with saliva and lube, and his lower back comes clear off the couch. His hip joints ache, and his head feels like it's going to explode, and he doesn't know if it's the hellhounds or the orgasm that's taking over his brain, but he decides he'll sort that out later.

(When he wakes up, hours later, Sam grinning at his side, it takes every ounce of strength he has to stop himself from pouncing on his little brother and kissing him. He goes for the bear hug instead; Sammy whispers _i did it_ in his ear, as if the words needed to be said.)


End file.
